


Set in Stained Linen

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, waxing poetic AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:49:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn imagines, when he’s feeling particularly masochistic, pulling Niall’s lips to his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set in Stained Linen

Give Your Heart--A Break

                Zayn doesn’t know when _oh Niall has nice eyes_ became ink splattered across his papers and charcoal staining his skin. Niall, pressed onto canvas and paper, all filled with color and feeling. He pours himself into it, painting—soul etched into the groves of Niall’s smile and the edge of his pupil; yellow. Niall surrounded by white pillows and dust blue blankets, eyes closed face soft- -pressed into a shadow figure Zayn _hopeswhishesdreams_ was him. Or: Niall with hallowed eyes and jutting bones, a skeleton walking. Painted and tangible expressions: the blond of his hair lightened by the break in his blinds, broken by Niall’s elbow in a play fight where Zayn had grabbed Niall’s hips and held and _wished_. Zayn expresses all his love— _devotion—adoration—_ all via art.

                Sometimes when Zayn has kipped at Niall’s for a night or two and the sun has raised just right, the smoke calming him _just so,_ sometimes, he’ll stir Niall from sleep; press a kiss to his temple. Sometimes, Zayn will place a lightweight tape recorder onto Niall’s chest, at which point Niall will smile where his mouth will stretch across his teeth and his eyes will shine too much— _was’ it now, Z?_ But there isn’t words—not for the rush of affection, so Zayn hushes Niall with a finger to the blond’s lips— _how he wishes those lips would meet his_ —and sometimes, if they lapse into a quiet, when he plays the tape back, he can just make out the steady thrum of Niall’s heart. It’s so easy to imagine that his ear is pressed there to Niall’s chest instead of an ear-bud pressed to his ear. Mostly though, Niall will laugh, loud and warm, pressing his face into Zayn’s neck and getting his sleep-fluffed hair into Zayn’s face. Zayn doesn’t mind much, honest.

                When Zayn thinks about it, if he thinks about it, there are a seemingly infinite number of reasons why Niall will only be enough. A black hole that sucks each moment they share into it, reasons to love Niall Horan. Zayn imagines, when he’s feeling particularly masochistic, pulling Niall’s lips to his, thinks of all the ways he could share his love— _adoration—obsession_ , but instead he burrows into his study and draws. From eyelash to ankle, impressions of tea stained mornings and shared bedrooms—lists of how I love thee.

He tattoos a new heart to his skin because Niall stole his.

                One day, midsummer, Niall stumbles across a filled canvas( _Starlit)_ , one that’s supposed to be covered by a sheet in his study awaiting to be hung in a gallery. He and Niall both stumble around sentences— _you, I didn’t, I—Zayn, how, why, it’s—_ until Niall grabs his chin,

                “Is this how you see me?” Zayn has tried before, in the past, to be coy and flirty; a brush of fingers, a lingering gaze, a cuddle, something. They all went to waste accepted with little giggles and swatting hands. But this.

This canvas says more than those efforts ever could—Niall’s skin etched into the constellations—eyes of Andromeda and heart of Vega. They both stare at the paint. Zayn wishes Niall would say _something._ However, they both stay silent—until

 

“You never?” Niall sweeps his hand across the canvas, across Zayn’s soul laid bare, heart bleeding blueblueblue. Zayn shrugs his hands brushing across Niall’s face— _I love you, I love you._

They kiss.

It’s worth every hour Zayn ever spent pining for it. Niall smiles up through his lashes, a ball of gentle warmth melting throughout his chest.

                “Are there others? Paintings?” His fingers trace the outline of Zayn’s ribs.

                “Lots,” Zayn smiles. “Tons even.” Still smiling he rubs his knuckles across the span of Niall’s hip—contented.

                “Show me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really even know.


End file.
